


the undone and the divine

by postalcoast



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: John replaces Thomas Downes basically, M/M, MorstonWeek2020, instead of you know what happening arthur just gets laid, its what he deserves, patching up wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25844179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postalcoast/pseuds/postalcoast
Summary: “Why’re you doin’ this?” Arthur asks, and the sound of his voice makes John look up, as if he’d maybe forgotten that Arthur was even there.John shrugs, a short jerky movement of his shoulder, and he looks back down to Arthur’s knuckles as he finishes his work. “Thought maybe, one day, you’d do the same for me if I needed it.”Arthur chuckles at this, and John looks back up at him just in time to catch the other man smiling. “You plannin’ on us running into each other again sometime soon?”
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 78
Collections: Morston Week 2020





	the undone and the divine

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from bedroom hymns by florence + the machine  
> bc there's a smidge of sex in this & that's like the perfect excuse for me lmao

Sometimes, more often than not, John thinks about his consequences. About the choices he’s made and the routes he’s taken. 

He believes that things happen for a reason, whether it be because of fate or some greater good. Bad things happen to bad people. Not always, but usually. Good things happen to those who are good. 

Again - not always, but usually. 

Enough that it matters, that it  _ matters  _ to be good and do good things. 

Either way, everyone is presented with choices in which they have the option to do something good or something bad. 

That’s something else John believes in. That people usually have a choice to do a good thing or a bad thing when the opportunity presents itself. 

It’s not always that simple, John’s aware - but sometimes, it is. 

And just as fate would have it, the choice presents itself to John in the form of a man crashing through the window outside of the Valentine saloon. 

Another man - one John’s seen at the bar a couple of times, one by the name of Tommy - uses the saloon doors as an exit, throwing taunts at the other man as he stumbles around in the muddy streets.

The two of them engage in a fist-fight, taking whatever bar brawl they had going outside. Just like wild animals drawn to the scent of fresh blood, the townsfolk gather around. Just like these beings with a primal instinct for entertainment, John joins the crowd. 

“Knock his head off!” Someone from the crowd jeers, more likely in Tommy’s favor than the other man’s. 

The other man, now that John’s stepped up close enough, is one that John hasn’t seen before. Dark blonde hair peeking out through layers of mud, a sturdy build that seems almost made for this kind of brawl. Tommy’s bigger and sturdier, however, but Tommy’s getting his ass kicked - to say the least.

“You okay there, Arthur?” Someone else on the side opposite the fight from John calls out, to which the other man responds. 

“Yeah, I got this son of a bitch.”

And, well, he ain’t lying.

The man by the name of Arthur - supposedly - gets Tommy down in the mud, scrambling on top of him and landing hard blows against his jaw. A few more hits like that and the citizens of Valentine could witness a murder.

But, Arthur stops himself eventually, leaving Tommy still moving and thrashing about on the ground, but still pretty heavily injured. He could’ve killed him easily enough, it makes John wonder why Arthur didn’t.

Arthur lifts himself up, the crowd still holding themselves back in case this man decides to take whatever leftover anger he still has out on one of them, and stumbles away, pushing himself past the crowd.

John follows.

***

Arthur splashes a bit of water in his face from a barrel, and it helps rid some of the mud caked over his features, but hardly enough to matter. He doesn’t even notice John, who’s leaned back against the wall of the hotel. Arms crossed and smug grin in place.

“You sure showed him,” John says, and that gets Arthur’s attention. “beating a man to near-death in the mud, you’ll be the talk of the town for months.”

Arthur stills at first, still leaned over the barrel, like a deer spooked out in the wild. His gaze is brought up to meet John’s steadily, warily. As if he’s preparing himself for another fight. 

“Yeah?” Arthur’s tense, but he straightens himself up. Lets his hands fall back down and away from his face, balled up into tight fists. “Well, I still got another fight in me if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

In a lot of ways, Arthur does remind John of an animal out in the wild. No longer a deer, or a buck, but something a little more capable of the sort of raw viciousness Arthur’s revealing right now. Teeth bared and shoulders taut. 

Narrowed eyes, a vocal warning to establish dominance before an attack. A coyote, perhaps, but not a deer.

“Calm down,” John puts his hands up in surrender, and maybe he imagines it, but Arthur seems to unwind a bit at this sign of capitulation. “A tussle in the mud with you ain’t exactly what I’m lookin’ for, friend.”

“Are we friends?” Arthur huffs out a laugh, although humorless, and throws his arms out as a gesture. 

John shrugs and picks himself up off the wall, although he makes no movement to close the distance between him and Arthur. “Could be, I guess.” 

“ _ Could be _ ,” Arthur repeats John’s words back to himself, and laughs again, shaking his head. He drops his gaze from John for a split-second before dragging it back up again. “what is it you are lookin’ for then,  _ friend _ ?”

“I don’t know,” John answers honestly, and takes two small steps forward. A part of him is pleased to see that Arthur doesn’t tense up or retreat at this. “a bit of a distraction - just like the rest of these fine folk, I guess.”

There’s a vast difference between him and Arthur, as John can tell. He doesn’t know much about this man or why it is that he’s beating other men out in the streets, but it’s hard to miss the walls Arthur has built up around himself. 

However, just like a real wall, they’re built to either keep things out or keep things in. Arthur presents himself as a man against a world that he’s clearly built his walls up to keep out.

John’s got walls of his own, too, and much like Arthur, his were built to keep everything out - at first. It took some time to realize that they were to hold everything in.

“ _ Ain’t we all _ ?” is what Arthur says to this, moving for what seems like the first time in ages - pulling himself away from the barrel and over to the hotel porch beside it to sit down on its wooden muddy planks.

John takes a few more steps forward, keeping himself in Arthur’s line of vision, arms still crossed. “By the looks of those nasty cuts you got, I’d say you’d better get yourself cleaned up before they get infected.”

“Look, I’m fine, alright, just -” Arthur starts, but John’s already taking out his handkerchief from his satchel and dipping it in the water from the barrel, and crouching down in front of Arthur to wipe away some of the mud still lingering on his face. All in a few swift, easy movements. 

Arthur stills again, but he lets John wipe away the dirt and grime. 

Arthur watches John’s face warily as he blots at one of the more nastier cuts above his eyebrow, and it stings - it has to sting, and Arthur winces but only slightly.

John wipes away the remnants of blood and moves his attention to Arthur’s busted knuckles, and cleans away the mud and blood caked there with just as much attentiveness. Arthur lets him, still watching as John’s gaze is focused down at Arthur’s hands.

Arthur even lets John hold them, and he doesn’t say anything about the slow, calming circle John’s thumb is rubbing into the skin of his index finger.

“Why’re you doin’ this?” Arthur asks, and the sound of his voice makes John look up, as if he’d maybe forgotten that Arthur was even there. 

John shrugs, a short jerky movement of his shoulder, and he looks back down to Arthur’s knuckles as he finishes his work. “Thought maybe, one day, you’d do the same for me if I needed it.”

Arthur chuckles at this, and John looks back up at him just in time to catch the other man smiling. “You plannin’ on us running into each other again sometime soon?” 

John mirrors his smile, and while he’s not planning on it exactly, seeing Arthur again is something he’d like. “It’s a smaller world than you think.”

John finishes cleaning up Arthur’s wounds, wraps his bandana around Arthur’s right hand because it won’t stop bleeding. John stands and Arthur flexes his hands, examining John’s handiwork. 

“What’s your name?” Arthur asks without looking at him. 

“John.” 

“Arthur,” Arthur supplies - although John’s already aware, this time looking up at John and lifting his left hand up for John to shake. John takes it.

“Nice to meet you, Arthur,” John says, and Arthur nods. Likewise.

***

When John does run into Arthur again, it’s a couple of months later and on account of a loan John took up with one Leopold Strauss in that very same town of Valentine. A loan he took up to take care of a few last improvements on the ranch and his barn.

Perhaps it’s John’s own lack of judgment, but he never took Arthur for the type to just barge into people’s homes.

But, he  _ is _ . Because, he  _ does _ . 

John hears the front door slam open from the kitchen, and just before he can get out of the door and into the living room to grab his gun, he hears it slam shut. 

He’s halfway out the kitchen door when he hears a familiar voice, much gruffer and less friendly. “Mr. John Marston?” 

The sudden movement of the kitchen door opening must spook Arthur because when John gets out of the kitchen, he’s got a gun aimed at him, and behind it, stands the same man from a couple of months ago that John met in Valentine, all healed up. 

John freezes, and Arthur looks about as surprised as John feels. 

Arthur sighs like this is all one big inconvenience, like perhaps John is the one breaking into  _ his  _ home, and he lowers his gun. “Goddamn it.”

“Nice to see you again,” John says, hesitant, and he’s got his hands raised in surrender even after Arthur lowers his gun. It takes him about thirty seconds too long to let them fall back down. “I gotta be honest, I never took you for the loan shark type.”

Perhaps Arthur didn’t expect that, perhaps he didn’t expect any of this, and John can’t necessarily blame him. The two of them are still staring at each other from opposite sides of the living room, warily, looking for the other to make a threatening move.

“And I never took you for the type to run out on your debts,” Arthur finds his voice, finally, and it’s enough to get John’s heart beating back to the rapid speed it held when Arthur first broke in only moments ago. 

“I didn’t  _ run out, _ ” John argues, defensive. “It’s been an  _ unfortunate  _ spring, seems the most you can grow ‘round here is rocks.”

Arthur shrugs, about as sympathetic as John would’ve expected him to be. “Should’ve thought about that before you borrowed the money.”

“Maybe so,” John mimics the simple jerk of Arthur’s shoulders. Now he’s trying to piss him off. Seeing Arthur in that fight all those weeks ago, John assumes it won’t be a difficult task.

There’s a pause, as John and Arthur continue sizing each other up, but not for very long.

“Yeah, well,” Arthur glances around, properly taking in his surroundings. “where is it?” 

“What?”

“The  _ money _ ,” Arthur’s quickly losing his patience, and for some reason, that makes John want to goad him on even more. 

“I just told you -”

Arthur cuts him off, taking a step forward. “Listen, buddy, I’m real grateful that you patched me up that one day back in Valentine, but I got a debt I’ve gotta collect and well,” He gestures between the two of them with a simple and quick motion of his hand as if they were having just any casual conversation. Perhaps they are, if debt could be categorized into something casual. “we can do this the easy way or the hard way it really makes no difference to me.”

John considers this, nodding at Arthur and pretending to weigh out his options although his mind has long been made up ever since Arthur came barreling through his door. 

Finally, he fixes Arthur with a look that couldn’t be described as anything other than challenging. “What’s the hard way?”

That’s all it takes. That’s all John expected it to take. 

Arthur takes the few steps left between them, crossing the length of the room, and John thinks about his consequences, again.

Inevitably, a debt is always due to be paid, as is being given a job to collect that debt. Inevitably, making that job difficult with a man such as Arthur, who’s used to settling his fights with argument, wit, or brawling, John can expect to receive either of the three. 

John likes Arthur, however. He likes being around Arthur, what little time is he provided with. He likes talking to Arthur, no matter the tone of the conversation.

Perhaps this is another one of those consequences, the fact that Arthur came crashing through his door for John to take up more of his time once again.

Arthur crowds John up against one of the walls of his living room, hands fisted in John’s shirt, and maybe it’s just the sheer irony of it all, but it has John laughing.

“You think this is funny?” Arthur tightens his grip, face close enough to John’s that John can see the details of a scar on Arthur’s chin that he didn’t seem to notice before. John’s almost tempted to ask him how he got it. 

“I think  _ you’re _ funny,” John half-heartedly admits, a goofy smile on his face and the remnants of breathy laughter still polluting his voice. “I think you’re goddamn hilarious.”

Arthur steps into his space even more, if it’s possible, boxing John in completely with his body. John lets his eyes dart around Arthur’s face, taking in its details. His eyes - intense and unwavering, another small scar along the left side of the bridge of his nose. 

“Oh, they don’t get more hilarious than  _ you, friend _ ,” Arthur says. He laughs, probably meaning it to sound cruel or mocking, but it doesn’t quite land. It’s more of an amused chuckle than anything, and this does nothing but makes John’s smile grow even wider. “ _ John Marston, the rock farmer _ .”

Arthur lets go of John’s shirt, and presses his hands up against the wall on either side of John, bringing them closer - if it’s even possible. Arthur has to tilt his head at an awkward angle to keep from the brim of his hat getting in the way so John just does them both a favor and reaches up and knocks it off.

He expects some sort of repercussion for that action, one of which that never comes, and they’re both just smiling at each other, at the dumb title Arthur’s given him or the childishness of John’s actions, and John notices the way Arthur’s gaze keeps flickering down to his lips. 

A subtle glance before drawing his eyes back up to meet John’s, a subtle glance that speaks volumes and echoes everything John is feeling right now within this moment.

“Don’t I know it,” John says, after what seems a lifetime of silence. His voice has taken on a new sound this time, however. A bit lower, the amusement it once held completely gone.

Arthur’s eyes dart down to John’s mouth once more, and he lets them linger there for a couple seconds longer than last time.

John thinks about kissing Arthur, John thinks about his consequences, John thinks about everything and nothing all at once and then John stops thinking altogether.

John leans in, closing what little space is left between the two of them, and kisses Arthur. 

Perhaps he’s wanted to since he saw Arthur wander away from a defeated Tommy and a satisfied, bloodthirsty crowd with his face covered in mud. Perhaps he’s wanted to since Arthur let him hold his hand to clean away the blood and dirt from his busted knuckles. Perhaps he’s wanted to since he saw Arthur standing a few feet away from his doorway, his pistol aimed right at John with his brows furrowed at his own frustration and confusion.

He’s wanted to, and now, he is, and it’s simply all John can think about. This very moment.

Arthur’s lips are chapped but the kiss is soft, hesitant, barely a ghost of a kiss as if Arthur’s holding his breath. John opens his eyes, and he’s not entirely sure he closed them, and Arthur’s got his eyes closed and the lines between his brows are less prominent, now, his face completely relaxed, and John closes them again. 

John moves his hand from where it’s hanging limp at his side and cups the side of Arthur’s face, fingers splaying out underneath his ear and along the side of his neck. Arthur’s stubble is a bit rough against John’s touch, but Arthur leans into it automatically, his mouth dropping open against John’s lips. 

Arthur’s kissing him back, a bit softer than John originally imagined he would, but then that would lead to John having to admit that kissing Arthur and Arthur kissing him is something he’s thought about more than once, and in detail.

And he has. 

He’s been thinking about it nonstop since Arthur wrapped his fists around the fabric of John’s shirt.

He thinks about it again, about how Arthur’s got him pressed up against the wall of his living room with no space left between them, and deepens the kiss. Arthur responds immediately, wonderfully, takes away one of his hands that’s pressed up against the wall and wraps his arm around John’s waist and it’s perfect. John feels as if everything he’s ever done in his life has led up this very moment.

Which, of course it has, in a literal sense, but that’s not the point.

John keeps his eyes closed when he pulls away, Arthur rests his forehead against John’s, mouth still hovering over John’s like he plans on kissing him again any second now. John hopes he does, then again, he might just do it for him.

“Debt’s in the bedroom,” John mutters, and Arthur lets out a short, amused little sound and John opens his eyes.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” John clarifies, quickly realizing the implication of his words, and Arthur nods, eyes still closed and face still relaxed enough to look as if he’s sleeping.

“I know you didn’t,” Arthur says, honest, and he lets his eyes flicker open to meet John’s once again. “I was just thinkin’ about going back and tellin’ Strauss to get a new debt collector, or a  _ job _ .”

“Already has one by the sound of it,” John says. “A job, I mean.”

“Rippin’ off and taking advantage of decent people ain’t a job,” The creases between Arthur’s brows are back, his jaw is set. Like he’s slipping back into a neutral, comfortable expression. “I don’t wanna talk about him.”

Arthur closes his eyes again, leaning in to claim the space between his and John’s lips, his voice barely a whisper now. “Don’t wanna think about him, just -”

He cuts himself off with another kiss, pressing his lips against John’s with a bit more fervent this time, arm winding around John’s waist tighter, pulling John off the wall and up against the length of his own body. 

John matches him perfectly, tongue slipping in through Arthur’s open mouth, to which Arthur encourages with a low groan. 

They do eventually make it to John’s bedroom, John walking Arthur backwards towards the room, the two of them still too caught up in each other to care about things as minute as bumping into the edge of the armchair or almost tripping over the edge of the rug underneath the dining table. 

John eventually does have to break the kiss along the way there, however, just to see where he’s going, and Arthur’s mouth travels down to kiss along John’s neck, as if he can’t bear to go one second without having his lips attached to some part of John’s skin. 

John walks Arthur back until the back of Arthur’s legs are bumping up against the footboard of John’s bed and Arthur lets himself fall back, over the footboard and onto the mattress, taking John with him. 

It probably hurts a bit, the back of his knees colliding with the wood of the bed frame like that, but Arthur doesn’t let on and continues kissing John about as hard as John saw him fighting that one day, over two months ago. 

It’s a strange analogy, to compare the way Arthur kisses to the way he throws punches, but it’s one that fits. Arthur seems like the type to be passionate about everything he does, the things that matter, and it’s something John likes to think he can easily relate to.

John grinds his hips down, against Arthur’s thigh and he’s groaning into John’s mouth again. John spends a good couple of minutes like that, hovering over Arthur, hands pressed into the sheets on either side of Arthur’s head, kissing him with a matched intensity. 

He could get off like this easily, even with the two of them still fully clothed. By the sounds Arthur’s making, muffled against John’s lips, and the little jerk of his hips against the knee John has conveniently placed between Arthur’s open legs - he probably could, too. 

They can’t keep going like this, though, or they will, and that’s probably not the process the both of them had in mind. Thankfully, Arthur seems to read John’s thoughts, and occupies himself with the task of unbuttoning John’s pants. John returns the favor, but his fingers are clumsy and unfocused, and after Arthur has accomplished his task he moves his hands to help John out.

They break the kiss long enough to free themselves of their suspenders, pants, shirts, union suits, and every other article of clothing that stands in between the two of them - all to end up scattered across the floor of John’s bedroom. 

Arthur manages to grab a small tin of hair pomade from his satchel before it’s completely discarded and forgotten on the floor, somewhere in between John shedding his clothes with absolutely no grace or shame. 

Arthur rolls them both over, switching positions and kneeling between John’s thighs. It must be getting late, if the lack of light faltering in through the windows is anything to go by. Most of the light provided in the room comes from the fireplace behind Arthur, illuminating around him in a way that makes his hair seem like it’s glowing. 

John couldn’t bring himself to take his eyes off Arthur’s face if he tried, hair unkempt and messy from where John kept raking his fingers through it and lips red and swollen - also equally John’s doing. 

He eases a pomade slicked finger inside of John, carefully - watching John’s face with the same amount of attentiveness that John stares right back at him with. When John doesn’t display whatever look of pain or hesitation Arthur seemed to be searching for before proceeding, he crooks his finger inside of him and adds another. 

John’s breath catches at that, and Arthur shifts above him, hovering over him just a little more - right in John’s line of sight no matter where he looks. John wants to tell him to get on with it, he’s even lifting himself up and against Arthur’s fingers now, but when he opens his mouth, the only sound that comes is a punched out little whine that’s merely laced with impatience. 

“You alright?” Arthur asks from above him, his voice soothing and cautious in a way that John’s never heard it before.

“Yeah,” John breathes the word out instantly, he closes his eyes, opens them, closes them again. “I’m good, just - I’m  _ good _ , c’mon.” 

When John opens his eyes again, Arthur’s nodding, somehow getting the message John wanted to relay through an incessant string of mumblings and John feels Arthur withdrawing his fingers. John feels it, he feels every single indication of Arthur’s presence right now to an almost absurd degree of awareness. 

Arthur’s hand on his thigh, urging his legs up just a bit more, Arthur’s gaze, unfaltering on him as he straightens himself up and pushes into John with the same amount of caution he’d used only moments ago.

The burn and the stretching of it occupies John’s mind, and a low groaning sound comes out from somewhere deep down in his throat. Arthur stills, still watching John’s face until John gives him a nod, a go-ahead, and Arthur moves. Slow, paced movements.

Arthur leans back down over John and kisses him, gentler than before but not quite the barely-there brush of lips that came with their first kiss tonight. John reaches up, pulling Arthur into a half-embrace, pulling him down closer against himself. 

John breathes out Arthur’s name, against Arthur’s mouth, and John doesn’t know his last name or he’d probably say that too. He doesn’t even know if Arthur is his real name, but it sounds right. Arthur moves his lips to the line of John’s jaw, and the broken off sound he makes against John’s skin is enough to tell him that is it. 

So, John says his name again, and again, until it’s just littered in a string of muttered out curses and pries as many sounds as he can out of Arthur in return. 

Arthur’s got a hand down between the two of them, the one that’s not propping himself up against the mattress, fingers wrapped around John’s cock until the two of them are breathless and shuddering. 

John comes with Arthur’s lips on his neck, arched up against him and moving against his quickened thrusts. Arthur slumps against him when they’re done, and the added weight is comforting, almost. Warm. 

They lie there, catching their breath, sweaty and panting, and Arthur lifts his head from the crook of John’s neck and he kisses John again. John snakes a hand up to the back of Arthur’s head and holds him there, and he kisses him back. 

John could kiss Arthur for a lifetime, but he’d have to be a saint to deserve such a life as that. 

Then again, it’s almost too heartachingly fitting that John should deserve a life in which time spent with Arthur like this is fleeting and temporary. 

Arthur rolls off of John but he doesn’t go anywhere, he stays at John’s side, the two of them still tangled up in John’s sheets and with each other. 

“Jesus,” Arthur says eventually, but he sounds pleased. 

“Yeah,” John agrees, prying his gaze away from the empty space above him where Arthur used to be and turning his head to look at the space that Arthur occupies beside him. 

It’s completely dark outside now, save for a small shred of moonlight, and Arthur looks beautiful with the firelight defining his features. 

John looks at him, and smiles, wide and sincere, because he can’t help himself. “Y’know, Tommy wasn’t lyin’ when he called you a ‘pretty boy’.” 

Arthur makes a small noise that could be considered a laugh, but he’s looking at John - incredulous and unconvinced, like John’s just said the most bewildering thing imaginable. “You think I’m pretty, huh?” 

John shrugs, guilty, but nods, still smiling. There probably isn’t enough words in all the languages combined for John to tell Arthur just exactly how  _ pretty _ he thinks he is. 

The two of them share another easy silence, one that’s comforting in all the ways that should be, before John’s breaking it again.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” John jerks up suddenly, leaning over to dig something out of the drawer of the bedside table before tossing it at where Arthur lies. “Here.”

A small bundle of cash. Arthur picks it up, looks at it, then looks back up at John, confused. “What’s this?”

“The debt I owe,” John settles back down beside him, gestures to the money in Arthur’s hand as if it’s something simple.

“Nah, keep it.” Arthur hands it back almost automatically, keeps pushing it against John’s side until he takes it back. “I doubt I’ll be seeing Strauss for a few days, anyhow.”

John doesn’t ask what Arthur means by that, and he isn’t exactly sure, but he puts the money back in the bedside table and lets Arthur curl up against him again and wrap a warm, comforting arm around him. 

If anything, it means Arthur will stay, at least for tonight, and the moments John gets to share with him won’t be as fleeting as he originally thought. 

***

John wakes up that morning to the smell of strong coffee that Arthur heated over the stove, and John wanders into the kitchen where Arthur, hair still disheveled and still stark naked, pushes a cup of it into his hands with a sleepy, gentle kiss.

Now, more often than not, John thinks about his consequences. He thinks about the good things that happen to those that do good could come in an example of Arthur, himself. 

Arthur laughing at something dumb John’s said over a couple of beers in the back shed. Arthur chopping firewood around the back of the house - sometimes without a shirt if the sun’s heat is convincing enough, and pretending not to notice as John purposely takes the long way around to carry eggs in the house. Arthur taking bales of hay out to the feeding pins and mumbling as soft and sweetly to the cows as he does to the horses. 

And when Arthur up and leaves eventually, John thinks about the bad things that happen to those who do good. 

  
That same night, Arthur returns with a wagon full of his own belongings and a smile on his face, and John thinks about all the reasons it  _ matters _ . It’s nothing simple, but his time spent with Arthur makes it seem like it is. 


End file.
